A Secret in Night Vale
by angeiei77
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has to disappear, and what better place than a small town in the desert of Texas? But his new identity, Carlos, puts Cecil Baldwin in a star-crossed trance. Mostly Johnlock with some Celos, with cross-fandom references. Rated T for mentions of sui/homicide, angst for angst!John, suspense because I post once a weekish. Reviews are great! (but you knew that, right?)
1. Chapter 1:The Goodbye and the Welcome

Chapter 1: Pilot Chapter-Goodbye

"Goodbye, John." I say. I hang up, throw the phone behind me. _I don't want to do this, John,_ I want to say. _But I must. I love you too much. I'm sorry. _I spread my arms like wings, and I fall.

Funny how they say your life flashes before your eyes. What I think of now is the plan. Convince Moriarty that I didn't know _his_ plan. (But it was so _obvious_! how could I not know?) Say goodbye to John. Fall.

The biker will hit John to distract him. I'll fall into cushioned garbage truck, then jump out and pour blood sample on the pavement. I'll put ball under armpit so John won't find a pulse, and try to look as dead as possible. Wait for doctors from the hospital next to me to come. Convince them to say I'm dead. Bury decoy corpse. Finally I'll see John for the last time, and then disappear.

It's all running through my mind as I fall. As John stands over me, I want to get up. I want to hug him, say I'm alright. But I don't. I can't. It'll only mean a bullet in his head if I do. So I let myself be hauled onto a stretcher and whisked through the hospital doors. The doctors take some convincing, but the money I stole from Mycroft helps them see sense. (What Mycroft doesn't know won't hurt him.) I let them measure me for my decoy body. This all seems so tedious. But then I see him.

I see John crying out of a one-way window. John is crying in the waiting room. Over me. The Psychopath of Baker Street.

Why does he care so much? But then, why did I fall for him, in every sense of the word? Love. I did it for love. But he loves me too. I want to run to him. I want to tell him that I'm here, that everything will be fine. But I can't. I love him too much to lie to him like that.

I see him crying, and a single tear runs down my cheek. Donovan may think I'm a feelingless show-off, but that's only around those ordinary people. John is different. He's the one person who ever cared about me. So I love him. I hate to see him so devastated, but it's for his own good.

So I turn away. I wipe my face with my scarf, only blending my tears with blood. I look over the decoy body. It's good enough. Hopefully John will be too teary-eyed to see it correctly. Oh God…What kind of sick sadist am I to wish something like that?

Three days later, I see him with his hand on my tombstone. "Just one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be…dead," he says. "Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this..." He turns away, doesn't look back. As he walks away, I whisper,"I love you." I know he can't hear me.

Then I turn away. I pick up my case; take a cab to the airport. The name on my passport is Carlos Wilson. I fly to America. I decide on a little town in a desert in Texas.

"Welcome to Night Vale" a sign says.

Night Vale. Sounds interesting enough.


	2. Chapter 2: The Transformation

Chapter 2: Transformation

Before I get settled into Night Vale, I must transform. Not here in Night Vale obviously, but in a nearby town. Maybe…Desert Bluffs.

The cabbie looks disgusted when I ask to go there. No, taxi driver, not cabbie. I have to get used to the American language. Cabbies are taxi drivers, trainers are sneakers, and zebra crossings are crosswalks. I'm sure I still have far to go on learning these translations.

In Desert Bluffs, I buy several pairs of green contact lenses. The cashier looks suspicious when I ask if he sells glasses. He does happen to, so I buy a large, black, rectangular pair. They don't have a prescription, just pieces of glass.

Then I go to the local Target to buy a new wardrobe. Tee shirts, polos, button-ups, pairs of jeans, ties-maybe I'll use that tiepin someday, even a bowtie. Then I see the jumpers. And of course I immediately think of John.

I can't believe I miss him already.

Should I buy one? The desert gets cold at night, and it's not really a _bad _idea. Who am I kidding? I want one because it's an excuse to think about John. I don't need one…I shouldn't get one…I _can't_ get one. What if I accidentally reveal my identity? If someone asks me who got it for me and I spill out the story of John and my relationship? I won't get one.

I take one off the rack…of every color.

I go to the cash register and buy my new clothes. The cashier once again, looks suspicious, but says nothing. Now two store employees are judging me. Not like I'm not used to it. I'm taken aback when my receipt says I bought seven _sweaters, _but then I realize that's just American for jumpers.

Now the part I was dreading. The Tanning Salon. I can't believe I'm actually doing this. Here goes nothing.

When I come out, I feel disoriented and dizzy, like after looking at a computer screen for a too long. In a daze, I walk out of the salon. I decide to head back to Night Vale.

On the way back, I ask the taxi driver if he knows of anywhere I can rent. He says there's an empty lab next to a pizza place called Big Rico's. Fabulous.

When I get to the lab, I'm pleasantly surprised to find it full of microscopes, long tables, and cabinets containing anything I would need. It looks so much like the lab back home, I half expect Molly to come out and ask if I want if I want to have coffee.

I miss her always trying to engage in pointless conversation. I miss her nervous smile that disappears when she thinks I'm not looking. That same sad look she says I have when I think John can't see me.

But that's gone now. It's not coming back. And I'm going to live here, in this lab, this little town, this country.

I rent the lab. The landlord asks what kind of scientist I am, and I say, "A detective scientist. When there is a death or crime scene, I use science to get to the bottom of it."

I blew it. I ruined the whole thing.

But the landlord doesn't think so. Maybe I still have a chance.

He says, "Really? You can tell how someone died by studying them?"

"Usually," I say, "but not without an assistant." _Not without John._

"We better get you some assistants then," the landlord says.

"Do you just have detectives lying around waiting for a mystery?" I ask. Maybe this town isn't as interesting as I thought.

"Oh no no no no no no no no! The oddest things happen here. The detectives are scrambling to find answers! They just need a leader."

I love to boss people around, and I would have a whole team of assistants. I just hope they aren't stupid ordinary people like Anderson. And maybe one of them will be like an other John. "I'd like to lead them," I say.

When the landlord leaves, I look in the mirror in the bathroom. I am unrecognizable.

My normally bright blue eyes are a vivid shade of apple green. The black frames around them make them seem slightly larger than normal. My curly black hair is in the same messy state as always, but it lies over a different skin tone. Instead of the powder white it used to be, it is a dark shade of chamois. I'm wearing a tee shirt and jeans, feeling so different without my coat and scarf. If John were to walk into town, even he wouldn't recognize me.

I walk outside. I look over the horizon at the setting sun. This is the last time a sun will ever set on a day that I was Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, without thinking, I run across the street to the radio broadcasting building. I climb the fire escape as fast as I can until I get to the roof.

I watch the sun setting from the top of the broadcasting building. The sun won't wait for me though. The fiery ball keeps falling to the ground. Now, just a half of a circle…now a sliver…now it's gone.

I sit there on the roof, just staring. This is it. This is my new life.

I fall asleep on the roof.


	3. Chapter 3: The Rooftop Deduction

Chapter 3: The Rooftop Deduction

I wake up looking up at someone who stands over me. I can't tell who it is at first because I fell asleep with my contacts and glasses on. I blink and stand up, brushing myself off.

"Hello!" he says.

"Hello, Cecil Baldwin," I say.

He looks confused. "How did you-"

"Know your name? And that you live on 8122 Rattlesnake Drive? How do I also know that you're a single, twenty-six year old radio broadcaster, living in a home that had a power out so your alarm clock didn't go off, so you took a shortcut to your job here off the town streets? That you had a rushed coffee and a bagel for breakfast?" Oh, how I've missed the dumbstruck looks of people after my deductions.

"How could you have possibly known that? Are you from the sheriff's secret police?" he asks, frightened.

I don't answer. I like suspense, and I love being mysterious. "Do you really want to know, Cecil?" I ask.

"Please tell me!" he sounds nervous and suspicious, but entertained at the same time. I smile to myself.

"Okay, fine. Your alarm clock didn't go off because of a power out at your house. So you had a very rushed morning. Crumbs on your shirt say your breakfast was rushed. Your nearly half unbuttoned shirt and crooked glasses say in a rush. Sand on your shoes and the bottoms of your jeans say you ran through the desert, kicking up dust because you were _rushing. _So why would you be running through the desert? It's a shortcut. You were hurrying to get to work. You must work here, because why would you climb up the stairs of a random building if you needed to get to work? Your jeans are wrinkled in a way that you wear them all the time, mostly sitting down. Your jaw line is set so you could start talking any time. So you sit and talk and work in a radio broadcast building? Must be a radio broadcaster."

He looks at me blankly, but smiling. He says, "How did you know I'm single?"

"Please," I start, "your shirt is extremely wrinkled and no wife in her right mind would let you leave the house without ironing your shirt. She would've waken up early too, to make you breakfast, and you wouldn't have been late. You don't have a ring on or an imprint or tan from one either, so you didn't just divorce."

"But how do you know my address and-"

I roll my eyes. "Seriously? Your ID fell out of your back pocket and is on the ground behind you. "

He looks embarrassed as he picks up the ID and asks, "You got all of that just by looking at me?"

"Yes," I say. "I have a tendency of trying to know everything about everyone."

"Are you a detective?"

"A scientist. My name is Carlos."

"Carlos," he says. He smiles like the name tastes sweet. "Why are you at the top of this building, anyway? You don't work here…I've never seen you before."

_That's actually a really good question. _I think. "I was watching the sun set. I want to know what time it sets every day. Some people think it's a waste of time, but I suspect there's something wrong with the clocks here." What the _hell _kind of a lie was _that_?

But Cecil buys it. He says, "Neat! But you don't live here, right?"

"Oh, no. I'm renting that lab next to Big Rico's Pizza."

"Alright then. Guess you didn't have breakfast, then. Do you want coffee or something?"

"No, sorry. Better get back to the lab." I smile, then climb down the fire escape and go back to the lab. The whole time I feel him looking at me.

Molly Hooper, meet Cecil Baldwin. You'll be the best of friends.


	4. Chapter 4: A Mysterious Message

Chapter 4: A Mysterious Message

Walking into the lab, I think of that encounter with Cecil. I know that he will be my new Molly, in a way. He'll always ask if I need something, smiling nervously at my every comment. He'll never tell me how he feels because he knows I already know.

As soon as I walk into the lab, I grab the clock off the wall. I take my watch off and hold it next to the clock. They seem to be in time with each other, except for the second hand. The second hand on the clock is actually _slower _than the one on my watch. It takes one and one quarter watch seconds for one clock second to pass by. I didn't think my lie on the roof was really true.

I need a closer look at the wall clock. I _really _have to reorganize this place. I go through all the cabinets and drawers to find a screwdriver, or what I think is a screwdriver. It's about the length of a pencil, but with the width of a bottle neck. It's made of different types of metals, silver and bronze being the most common, I believe. Most peculiar of all, instead of a screwdriver tip at the end, there is a rather small, green light. I press a button on the handle part (I think) and the light bulb _becomes a screwdriver tip. _What is this madness? Maybe it was my imagination…whatever. At least it opened up the back of the clock.

I take off the backing and look inside, but it's empty! No wires, gears, or even batteries! The only parts of the clock are the backing, the glass, the hands, and the clock face. These must be examined more closely.

The backing is a flat, black, metal disc. I scan it for any chemicals or radio activity, but all I find are the toxins in the paint. The glass is just like any circular piece of glass, with no scratches, chips, or even fingerprints. The hands are varying lengths of black metal rectangles. They don't seem to-WHAT IS THAT?

Engravings! The hands of the clock are engraved with words! The minute had reads, "the broadcast building", the second hand displays, "when next we align", and the hour hand says, "Be at". "Be at the broadcast building when next we align."

Is it an invitation? A demand? A threat? Does this have anything to do with meeting Cecil earlier? The message did specify that very building. Is it just coincidence? Or is it a visual trick caused by my glasses and contacts?

No matter what it is, I will be at that building when the hands align.


	5. Chapter 5: Men in Black

(Sorry it always takes so long! Guess I should warn you, Supernatural references in this one. If you don't watch Supernatural, it's no biggie. Just a head cannon of mine. P.S. I don't watch Supernatural either-all this stuff I got off of tumblr!)

* * *

I stand there, in front of the broadcasting building, holding the clock in my hands. It is exactly 9:46 in he morning, so I have forty-seven seconds to go until I have to be in the building. Who's waiting for me inside? Forty seconds...Is this a trap? I just came into town, what would anyone have against me? Thirty seconds...How did they get my clock and engrave the hands? Twenty seconds...Am I just imagining this whole thing? Ten seconds...Maybe I should go...five seconds...now or never...one second...

I open the doors and step inside. It has the air-conditioned feel of a dentist's waiting room. The walls are painted a light shade of lavender, with black trim, doors, carpet, and furniture. The receptionist's desk and uniform are black, with purple and white name plates labeled "Betsy." A floral perfume lightly hangs in the air so visitors will think the purple flowers in empty, black vases are real. I walk to he receptionist's desk and say, "My name is Carlos."

She looks up at me with wide eyes. Not scared or surprised eyes, just oddly opened eyes. "We've been expecting you." We? Who's we? "Room 221. You need no admission to the room except three knocks on he door and the answering of five questions. Please take a complimentary bloodstone." Her arm robotically twitches, in some strange gesture to a black, metal, wire basket full of rocks. I notice her arm is not of a female, but of a male. She (he?) is one cross dresser I didn't see coming...

"Thank you." I say. The receptionist goes back to her (his?) complex sketch of a human eyeball stuck with porcupine quills, like some grotesque pin cushion. But I ignore her and start my walk down the hallway.

I find room 221. The golden numbers on the black door reflect the fluorescent lights the same way they reflected the street lamps on Baker Street.

I flashback to the night we came home and he said, "That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever done." "You invaded Afghanistan," and we laughed. We just laughed. I remember how everywhere we went, people thought we were boyfriends. When he sighed as i put a gun to his head and said "He's my hostage." I remember running with him, holding hands. "Now people will definitely talk," but we didn't actually care. "We're gonna jump in front of that bus," how much he trusted me, but I made him lose all hope by now...now that I'm gone.

I shake the memories from my mind and knock three times. A harsh, male voice demands, "State your name occupation, purpose, and favorite flavor of jam."

What kind of request is that? "Carlos, scientist, I was called here, and blueberry."

"Excellent!" a very different voice says. I can tell he's trying to not sound as excited as h really is. The door opens and...

"Hello, Cecil," I say.

I walk inside the room. There is a long table stretching along the side of the room, laden with bagels, jams, corn muffins, and coffees. No tea.

In the center of the room is a longer table, with chairs all around it. Some people are seated in the chairs, chatting or eating bagels. An old woman walks up to each person, asking something about a lightbulb in her hands. Two people are sitting cross-legged in the middle of the table, furiously cursing at each other in morse code and sign language. Others are placed at random places in the room, such as standing backwards on chairs, laying under tables sleeping, standing on their heads signing monotone, ancient-sounding chants, or cowering in the corners of the room as if trying to hide from some higher form of existence.

There's a podium with a microphone at the head of the table. A middle aged woman is standing at it. Her eyes dash to the people in the room, counting them. Not just once, but over and over as if one of them will disappear if she doesn't make sure they're all there.

I walk over to the food table and grab a corn muffin. I take a bite out of it. It does taste like corn, but its lack of salt makes it kind of tasteless.

"Enjoying my corn muffins?" a small voice behind me asks. I turn around and see the old woman.

I turn to her and reply, "Oh, yes! They're lovely. What's your recipe?"

"Why thank you dearie." I despise being called 'dearie'. "But, my recipe is a secret only I know. Usually there's salt in it, but the angels borrowed my salt for their Godly mission, and they haven't given it back just yet."

"The angels?"

"Ooh, angels!" a voice to my left says. Cecil has suddenly popped into the conversation. "How did you come by them, Miss Josie?"

Old Woman Josie beams. "Well it's quite a lovely story, actually. One day I was just making dinner for myself, and I heard a knock on the door. 'Who could it be?' I wondered. So I got up and answered it. And when I opened the door, there were the angels."

"What did they look like?" Cecil asks.

"Well, there were five of them, but three of them never spoke at all. Maybe they didn't know English. But they were about ten feet tall, and glowed in a brilliantly radiant way, like one might think an angel would. They looked like darling young boys, just with white wings, robes, and halos. But one of them, the last one to walk in the door, he was different. I think I heard another angel call him, the different one, 'Castiel'."

"What was different about Castiel?" Cecil asks. "Less radiant? More human-like?"

"Why, yes, actually," says Josie, surprised. "Castiel wasn't shining, and seemed more human than the other angels. And his wings and robes weren't white. They were black."

"Black?" Cecil repeats, as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. "Why would an angel be black?"

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't want to ask, guess I thought is was a personal matter. You can't just ask people why they're black. The other angel who actually talked, Gabriel I think his name was, kept pestering him about someone named Dean. But then Castiel snapped back at him with some remark about someone named Sam, and shut him up for a while. I'm not quite sure what that deal is. I guess it's family business. But anyway, Castiel wanted to know if they could borrow some salt and matches, because he needed them for a godly mission. And I said yes, of course. It's not every day that an angel wants to borrow your salt and matches. Then Gabriel insisted that they repay me somehow, so I mentioned that the porch light needed to be replaced, and i was too short to do it myself. And Castiel replaced it! I think I should sell this old lightbulb. It has been touched by a godly being, after all."

"That's lovely, Josie." Cecil replies, smiling.

This three way conversation has been a bit one-sided, so I think I'll say something. "Where are the angels now?"

"Oh, they've been staying at my house for a while now. They've been the best company I could ask for, especially when they talk about the Winchesters."

"Who are the Winchesters?" Cecil asks.

"Those are Castiel and Gabriel's friends, Dean and Sam. Well, personally, I think they're a little more than just friends. I can just tell by the way the angels smile when they talk about their friends that they want to be more, anyway. There was one time they told me about when they met a vampire..."

But I'm not listening. I'm distracted by some people I didn't notice before.

Tall, muscular men in black suits and sunglasses stand in the back if the room. They stand like FBI or police agents, but they don't have any patches or badges on their clothing to identify themselves with. They have handguns in their belts. The same type and model of gun that John...they have wireless communicators in their ears that keep flashing a blue light, as if someone is talking to them, but they show no sign of wanting to respond to messages or recognizing that there are voices in their ears. They never move. Never does a smile or a flinch at a loud noise cross their face. They never scratch their noses or shift their weight. They never even breathe deeply. They just stand with their hands behind their backs, scanning the room behind their dark lenses.

They're starting to creep me out, so I tune back in to the conversation. I realize that neither Old Woman Josie nor Cecil is saying anything, but are looking at me as if waiting for an answer to a question. I rewind to earlier, and decide the question was on how to kill a vampire.

"Um...a stake through their heart?" I'm fairly certain that that's the way it's done. I remember reading it in a book called "Princesses and Pirate Ships" when I was a child. I only cared about the second half of the book, the pirate ships. Mycroft's half was the first one on the princesses and queens. I remember catching Mycroft dressing up like he was the queen-

"See that's what I thought, too!" Old Woman Josie says, interrupting my moment of reminiscing part of my childhood. "But it turns out you're supposed to chop off their head!"

"Silly me!" I say, faking a smile. Honestly, I think she made up the angels and the vampires to cover up the fact she's too poor to buy more salt.

The woman at the podium bangs a gavel on the podium's surface. "I call this meeting to order!" she shouts into the microphone. A high pitched creak like nails on a chalkboard sounds after this proclamation. It's feedback from the microphone, caused by too many loud noises. "Sorry! So sorry!" she apologizes several times, turning the microphone on and off all the while. "Well," she huffs, "everyone find a seat and sit down, and we will start our meeting immediately.

Finally, this meeting is going somewhere.


	6. Chapter 6: The Introduction

Chapter 6: The Introduction

Old Woman Josie scuttles to a seat on the other side of the table. While her back is turned, I take the chance to throw away the rest of the corn muffin. It really was very tasteless.

I turn to the seat at the very end of the table, farthest from the podium. I want it so nobody will sit directly next to me and annoy me. I start to stride towards it, but as soon as I almost reach it, it is rudely taken from me. An about thirty-five year old man in a black suit sits down in it, smiles at me and says, "Sorry, seat taken." So I pretend I wasn't going for that seat anyway and plop myself onto the chair nearest to me. Only one person besides the seat stealer can sit next to me.

And unsurprisingly, the person is Cecil. He sits there, ankles crossed, with his interlaced fingers holding his chin. His elbows are on the table, his blue eyes blinking more rapidly than is normal. He's even more obvious than Molly.

"I call this meeting to order!" she shouts, once again forgetting the purpose of a microphone. The feedback rings around the room, echoing in my ears even after the noise has stopped. She clears her throat. "Apologies," she whispers. "So, let us start with a prayer."

Everyone nods gravely and rummages in their purses or pockets. Cecil leans to me and whispers, "You're new here, aren't you? Here, you can borrow one of mine." He places a pebble on the table in front of me. I look more closely at it, and see the etching of a human heart in the center.

"Thanks for the offer, but I've got my own." I slide his bloodstone back to him and take the one I got earlier out of my pocket. I lay it on the table, heart side up.

"Alrighty!" Cecil grins, "Where'd you get it?"

"There's a whole bin of them in the front lobby."

"Neat!" He pockets his extra one, smiling at me the whole time.

"Time for a prayer," the lady at the podium says.

Everyone closes their eyes. They sit with their elbows on the table, palms and faces pointing to the ceiling. The room is silent for several seconds, but then the woman at the podium starts muttering something that sounds like a different language. The whole room chants with her, and it kind of sounds like, "Eleka nahmen nahmen ah tum ah tum eleka namen." They keep repeating the same chant over and over, then suddenly, they stop. They open their eyes, looking at each other, almost confused.

"I would like to call Carlos Wilson to the stand," the woman says. What is this, a court case?

I smile and wave at the groups stares as I walk to the podium. "Well hello," I say. "As you already know, my name is Carlos Wilson, and I am a scientist."

"Why did you come here?" a woman asks.

"Well…" Come on, what was my cover story? "This is, by far, the most scientifically interesting community in the US, and I have come to study just what is going on around here." I grin, hoping the next few questions won't need lies I can't handle.

"Whaddaya mean 'scientifically interesting'?" some bratty guy asks. His backwards black hat advertising Nike and shirt displaying only the word "obey" say to this day his intelligence is low enough to make me feel sick.

"Well you see," I say, hoping to confuse him, "as the height of the sun in the sky at precisely nineteen hours, that's seven o'clock civilian time, is only five million, one hundred seventy-three thousand, eight hundred sixty-two meters tall, I can only assume that the hypotenuse of the right triangle formed by the sun, the ground, and this very building is around nineteen million, one hundred eighty thousand eight point seven nine zero five meters longs, which is nearly double the size of the hypotenuse of a nearly equal measurement taken in London, which leads me to assume that the time is different here. But of course it is because it is a different time zone! But alas, I am not speaking of the time, but of the angle, height, and set time of the setting sun and the sun here sets much faster than it should. So to answer your question, this is considered by me to be a scientifically interesting community because of the relationship between your average wall clock and the sun."

"Huh?"

"And also," I say, making up every word as I go along saying them, "one of the houses in the new development of Desert Creek, out back of the elementary school, doesn't actually exist. It seems like it exists," I say, pushing my hair back a bit as I talk, "like it's just right there when you look at it. And it's between two identical houses, so it would make more sense for it o be there than not. But, we have done experiments and the house is definitely not there. We were standing on a group on the sidewalk in front of the non-existent house, daring each other to go knock on the door. None of us did though."

"How is that even possible?" someone asks me.

"It is, in fact, possible," I say. "And in addition, myself, and a team of other scientists, at the monitoring station near Route 800, had our monitors say there were wild seismic shifts, meaning to say that the ground should be going up and down all over the place. We have double checked the monitors and they are in perfect working order. To put it plainly, there should be catastrophic earthquakes happening right here in Night Vale that absolutely no one can feel!"

"That doesn't even make sense!" the "obey" man says.

"It does make sense," I stubbornly report. Maybe I won't lie in this next rant. "And also, the sun didn't set at the right time today. I am quite certain about it. Myself and my team of scientists have checked multiple clocks, and the sun definitely set ten minutes later than it was supposed to." That is not a lie.

"Do you have any explanations?" Cecil asks from the back of the room.

"We have no sure reasons of why the sun is setting late, but we do have several theories. One of mine is that the clocks are actually wrong here. I think that the clocks of Night Vale should not be relied upon, for my team of scientists and I sat around a desk clock with our own most trusted watches, and made a different noise for every second, minute, and hour that passed by."

"You're crazy," someone says.

"Thank you for your time," I say. I stroll back to my chair, smirking the whole time.

The room is silent for the while after I sit down, but then the woman stands up and walks to her beloved podium. "Thank you, Carlos. That was an interesting introduction of you. That was really the whole point of everyone being here today…so I guess…meeting dismissed."

The room stands up and people rush out the door. Cecil beams at me as I stand up. "Um…Carlos?" he stutters.

"Yup?"

"Would you mind if…if I broadcasted some things you said on the radio show I have? Just so the town will get to know you a bit more?" He looks nervous, as if my rejection was the worst possible thing that could happen to him.

"Oh, it's fine!" I say. I really couldn't care less about what people think of me.

"Neat!" Cecil says. "Do you want to stop by sometime for an interview?

"Maybe sometime," I say.

Sometime later.


	7. Chapter 7: Missed Calls

Chapter 7: Missed Calls

I leave the room, once again feeling Cecil's eyes on my back. I swear he is _trying_ to be obvious. I walk down the hallway, back to the lobby. The receptionist I saw earlier has been replaced with a mannequin displaying the words 'coffee break.'

I push open the doors and cross the street, heading for the lab. It looks undisturbed, so I doubt anyone has come to tamper with my clock again, but I'll examine it to be sure.

I disassemble it again, this time taking a look at the hands first. They are still engraved, but each of them only displays one, tiny word.

As I dash to the microscope, clock hands in my own hand, I decide to install security cameras around the lab as soon as I possibly can. Someone, or something, has replaced my clock. The hands say, "Check your phone."

Should I be scared? Yes. Am I going to check my phone? Obviously. I pull it out of my pocket, feeling like the idiot in a horror movie who opens the creepy door. In swear, if it's Cecil who's playing with my clocks and leaving messages on my phone I will never speak to him again. But if it's crazy murderer strapping bombs to people like Moriarty did to–

John. I have two missed calls from _John Watson. _John Watson called _me_? Two times? But he…I'm going to be a mess by the end of this.

"Sherlock," the first one starts. "I…I'm calling you because…I don't know. I wanted to hear your voice…but you didn't…answer. Well of course you didn't answer. I just think if I call you and just imagine that you hear me…maybe you will somehow. I know you never believed in God, but I think you somehow have a phone in heaven and you're listening to me talk…

"I have a confession to make, Sherlock. I…I made a speech at your funeral. But…I don't think I said enough. I only talked about what a great scientist and detective and friend you were. I never said one thing about all the fights we had or the hearts you broke or your horrid rudeness. I didn't say about how you kept that head in the fridge. I almost did…but then I thought, 'Most of these people don't deserve it. These people never knew Sherlock like I do…did…they don't need to know about us.' But I did say how much I l-"

The message ends there. I feel tears beginning to come down my face. He wants me to listen to him, so I feel I must.

"Sorry Sherlock…I pressed the 'end' button when I was wiping my face," so he was crying already too. "I heard your answering machine…I can't believe that's all I'll ever hear you say again. 'You have reached Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message if you must, and don't be too boring.' But I haven't reached you, Sherlock, have I? It's not like you to lie to me.

"But Sherlock, after your funeral…before they buried you…I didn't believe that you were really dead. When the chapel was empty…your casket was just lying there. And it was a closed casket funeral…so I thought there might be a chance that you were alive and well in some other country and the casket was empty. So I ran to and opened the lid and… and you were in it. You with your black coat and your cheek bones and your scarf and your hair. I've seen plenty of dead bodies before in Afghanistan, but none of them broke my heart like yours did.

"And I have to tell you…I needed a piece of you…to have…so I…I took your scarf. It was a little wet with blood and salt water, but I took it. I just unwrapped it from your neck and hugged it. And I swear in that moment…we were infinite. You were there and you were hugging me back. I could smell you and we were so warm and innocent and…forever. You were there…until you weren't. I let go of the scarf…and you were gone…like a feather in the wind.

"I took your phone too…it said 'I AM LOCKED' It was Irene's phone. You never told me that you were using Irene's phone. I typed in 'SHER' but that was wrong. I don't think I'll ever figure out the pass code. I'm not a great detective like you are…were…I'm keeping it under the skull on the mantelpiece. Just in case.

"I put a pack of cigarettes in your pocket…to fill the space in your pocket. Maybe you can have a nice smoke in heaven. And since I took your scarf…I gave you my jumper. So you could take me with you.

"One more thing Sherlock…this is going to really scare you probably. But… you were lying there in your coffin, and there were just so many things I never said to you. So I…when I was putting my jumper under your head…was closer to you than I had ever been before. And I…I kissed you. Just for a second. Just to say goodbye…to say I meant every nice thing I ever said. To say thank you for everything you did for me. To say…to say I love you. And I truly do love you.

"I do, Sherlock Holmes.

"I do."


	8. Chapter 8: My Promise

**(Author's note: You are free to hate me for not putting this up. Really. Sorry this is getting so angsty! It'll get better though! (Maybe-muahahahaha) This chapter is from the point of view of JOHN! I REPEAT: JOHN'S POINT OF VIEW! Please don't get confused and think that it's Sherlock because it will make no sense! Okay that's all)**

Chapter 8: My Promise

"I do, Sherlock Holmes. I do." I hang up the phone, wiping my soaking face with my already wet sleeve. I just want to sit here on my phone and talk with Sherlock forever. I know he's hearing me somehow. I can just _feel _it. I have to accept that he isn't coming back. It's been a week, and if he was still alive he would have let me know. I know he would've. I don't see why he wouldn't.

I pick up the phone again, debating whether or not I should leave one more message. But I just can't bring myself to do it. It probably wouldn't be understandable anyway.

It's so lonely without him around. He didn't make much noise when he was sulking or brooding over a case, but that was a good silence. It was almost a kind of peacefulness. Even when he was tearing apart the flat looking for cigarettes or breaking glassware in the kitchen, he was still there.

Mrs. Hudson is a mess, going to grievance counseling every day. She should've come home ages ago, but maybe she's in a coffee shop somewhere reading a book to try to escape. That's what they told me to do after I got back from Afghanistan. "Oh you'll be fine! Get addicted to a good book and travel to that fictional land!" It never works. My eyes just went over the words, trying to get away from my pain. But I was just reading, not really _reading. _

I send a group text to Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. _Meet me at Angelo's at 8:00? –JW _I don't know why Angelo's. Maybe because I'm sure Angelo will give us everything for free…just like that first night when he said, "On the 'ouse for you and your date." And Sherlock looked over that like it was nothing.

_I'll be there. –MH. _We all sign our texts like that now, even though we all know that the others have caller ID. It's a tribute to Sherlock I guess, even though we never all planned told each other about it.

_Meet you there. –GL. _I guess I should get a cab; it's already 7:50. I turn off all the lights in the flat and head down the stairs. I open the door and head outside.

_I am at Angelo's already. –Mrs. H. _The cab pulls up to the pavement curb. I open the door and say, "Angelo's…the restaurant."

"I'm a cabbie. You really think I don't know what Angelo's is?"

His accent and tone sound slightly familiar, but there's probably more than one sarcastic Irish guy running around London.

He starts the cab as I take out my phone. I'm not going to call Sherlock, but maybe I'll text him. He preferred to text anyway. What do I say? What words can say everything I've been feeling? "I miss you, I'm lonely, I need you, Talk to me, Come back, Let me talk with you-not to you." That's not enough, though. There are no words to express this feeling.

Just one text, but what will it say? I see Angelo's approaching in the distance…maybe I won't send one.

"Angelo's is to your right," the cabbie says.

"Yeah, thanks," I say opening the door. I offer him £3, but he doesn't notice.

"Keep it up, mate."

"What?" I ask, getting out of the car. I try to look at his face, but he's wearing dark sunglasses and a hat that leave his face in a shadow.

"Free of charge." I barely glimpse him smirking as he drives away. I know that smirk from somewhere, but _where?_

I shake the image from my mind and walk into Angelo's. I see Molly and Mrs. Hudson at a booth already. Molly has her arm around Mrs. Hudson, who has her face in her hands. Molly tucks her hair behind her ear, wiping away a tear in the process, saying, "We all do, Mrs. Hudson…all of us."

I sit down at the table, and Molly smiles at me in the saddest way possible.

"Hi, John," she says.

"Hi," I say.

After a few awkward seconds of listening to Mrs. Hudson's uneven gasps for air, Lestrade walks in and sits down next to me.

"Sorry I'm late," he says. It's 7:59, so he's not actually late. Just not as early as everyone else.

"It's alright," Molly says with a sigh.

The group is silent while we pretend to look at our menus. None of the food seems quite right; it's all too fancy, too expensive, and too ordinary.

"I'm not really hungry," Lestrade says, more to himself than to everyone else.

"Me neither," says Molly. Nobody's making eye contact. Whenever somebody talks, they never seem to actually be conversing. Everyone just looks at their hands with sad eyes.

Angelo comes to the table, saying "May I take your order?" He fits right into the group, talking like he's reading lines that he's not familiar with.

"I'll have tea and a scone," Molly says.

"Just black tea for me," Mrs. Hudson sniffs, barely audible since her hands are covering her face.

"Glass of white wine," is Lestrade's order. Sherlock once ordered a glass of white wine. He splashed it on his face to convince a cabbie that we was a drunk trying to get home. When the cabbie was abducting him he yelled out to me…his friend…his only friend in the world…

Everyone's silently looking at me, waiting for my order. "Erm-black tea with two sugars," I say quickly. Angelo nods and takes our menus.

We all sit there, not knowing what to say. We're all thinking about the same thing. Sherlock. Without him, I wouldn't know any of these remarkable people. I wouldn't know Mrs. Hudson because I would still live by myself in my old, sad flat. I wouldn't know Lestrade because I never saw myself as someone who would be seen at a crime scene, let alone investigates one. And I wouldn't know Molly because my job mainly focuses on trying to cure living people, not autopsy-ing dead ones.

Angelo comes back with our drinks. He sets them down in front of us, and we all say "thank you" at varying volumes and speeds. Nobody moves after he leaves, until Lestrade raises his glass and says, "To Sherlock?"

"To Sherlock," the rest of us say. We clink our cups in the air, as a toast to our beautiful friend. We all take a sip of our drinks in unison.

"He was a great man," Molly says. "Always knew everything about me, everything. Good and bad. I loved him so much." A single tear falls down her cheek, like a bead of wax on a candle stick. Her emotions are triggered by the flame of his death, and now her whole being is falling apart, one small drop at a time.

"I'm sorry you guys," she continues, "I have to go. I just can't think straight. Thanks for inviting me though." She picks up her bag and leaves the table, wiping her face.

Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and I sit there. "Excuse me for a second," Lestrade says. He gets up from the table and heads to the toilet.

"I'm sorry John," says Mrs. Hudson, apparently also leaving. "I love you but I can't stay. I'm taking a cab home." She gives me a hug and kisses me on the cheek, then walks out the door.

When Lestrade returns, he sits on the opposite side of the table, filling the empty space.

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it for you?" I ask Lestrade.

"What do you mean?" he replies.

"It's something we ask in the hospital all the time. One means 'It hurts a little if I move this way.' and ten is 'This is the worst I will ever feel in my life.'"

"Oh," he says.

"Patients come in, crying or screaming, and they always hold up nine or ten fingers. They always think that this is the worst in their lives that they will ever feel. But I think they should save their ten for some time like this. They don't know how bad the worst pain really feels until they've felt everything else." Now I'm crying too. I know Lestrade's trying to keep himself together, but he's bound to fall apart some time soon.

"This is a nine then," he says. "This is the worst I have ever felt in my life, but one day you or Molly or Mrs. Hudson or someone will go the way he did. And that...that will be my ten."

I look into his eyes. "Promise me," he says,"promise me you will _never _do that, alright? Do you promise?"

"I promise."


	9. Chapter 9: Free of Charge

**Chapter 9: Free of Charge**

It's no surprise to see the old lady scurry out of Angelo's first. She sniffles her way into a cab that drives off just as the other woman opens the restaurant doors. She walks down the pavement to the bus stop, and it comes by to pick her up. Two minutes later the older man trudges out, looking crestfallen. He wearily calls a cab and, disheartened, climbs inside.

Now is my chance. I knew he would stay the latest, maybe sitting at the table until the lights turned off and Angelo had to kick him out.

I start the cab and park myself right outside the doors. I check my watch; it's 8:30. I can see him from where I am, but I can't see his face. Which means he can't see me text my American friend, _Call me in 10 minutes_.

I see him get up. He trips coming out of the door, clinging onto anything he can. He practically dances to my car, spinning and dipping and changing tempos all the time. He almost falls through my window, and I can smell alcohol on his putrid breath.

"Drive m-me home?"

"It's my job."

He cascades into the backseat, fumbling with the seatbelt as I start the car. He grumbles incomprehensible noises as I drive to his flat. He's cross-eyed and confused- looking, hiccuping every few seconds. He seriously doesn't suspect anything of me at all, but nobody ever thinks about the cabbie. You're just the back of a head. And he's so drunk, he probably won't remember any of this tomorrow. I might as well have my fun.

"Here you are."

"Tha-anks." He stumbles out of the door, falling onto the pavement in the process.

"Here, mate," I say. I pick him up by the back of his shirt, half leading-half shoving him up the stairs. "You've got a key?" I ask.

"There's one some-somewhere there..." he vaguely points to the planter on the side of his house. I walk towards them and pretend to look for a key, but just take the ones out his pocket.

"Here we are," I say, unlocking the door. He pushes past me into the flat,immediately heading for the stairs. He trips on almost every one, even though he's clutching the railing for dear life. He doesn't notice me pocket his keys.

"See you later, John," I say.

"Yeah...later..."

I smirk, walking back to the car, starting it just as i hear my phone ring.

_Ah, ah, ah, ah, stayin' alive, stayin' alive..._


	10. Chapter 10: Artie and Sea Bass

**Chapter 10: Artie and Sea Bass**

"Sea Bass!"

"Artie!"

"Why'd you call?"

"You told me to call."

"I did?"

"Yes."

"I knew that."

"I know you did."

"So..."

"So..."

"How's America?"

"It's alright."

"What state are you in now?"

"Texas. It's really hot here."

"Must be a huge change."

"Yeah."

"So..."

"You got Sherlock to jump, right?"

"Yeah, a week ago."

"Oh."

"Why'd you ask?"

"Well...um..."

"Well what?"

"I saw a guy who looks a hell of a lot like Sherlock."

"SAY THAT AGAIN! No seriously, say that again. Bad connection. I thought you said you-"

"-saw Sherlock? I swear I did!"

"What does he look like?"

"Well the first time I saw him, he was wearing that coat and scarf you said he always wore. He had dark, curly hair, it was probably naturally curly at one point, but I'm positive he curls it now. His eyes were the bluest blue to ever blue, they were like ice and the sky and you could just fall into them. He was really skinny, like maybe he doesn't eat the amount he should. He had really fair, pale skin, and cheekbones-omigod don't get me started on his cheekbones! They are just-"

"Sea Bass! Now is not the time to discuss how gorgeous he is!"

"Sorry!"

"You're describing him exactly how he looks, which gets me wondering...when did you see him?"

"A few days ago. I was a cabbie and he asked me for a ride to a nearby town. I gave him the ride, and when he was getting out of the cab, it occurred to me that he looks exactly like Sherlock Holmes!"

"What did you do?"

"Well I watched the stores he went into, naturally. He went to an optometry place and a Target. Then he went to a tanning salon, of all places!"

"A tanning salon?"

"And you drove him home?"

"Yeah. He looked so totally different! His skin was like, way darker, and he had green contacts on so you couldn't see his beautiful blue eyes! He had black glasses and his outfit was completely different! It was so weird!"

"Almost like he was trying to hide his true identity."

"Yeah! He said his name was Carlos Wilson."

"Where does he live?"

"Well he asked me if there were any places for rent on the area and I said yes. There's this laboratory he decided to live in right next to the local pizza place."

"And he lives there?"

"Yeah!"

"Wow..."

"I know, right? Who wants to sleep in a lab-"

"Not the laboratory! Sherlock Holmes is alive! How the hell did he fake his death?"

"How did you fake your death?"

"Oh. Touché..."

"Didn't we have a plan?"

"A plan?"

"For if he was sill alive."

"Oh that..."

"Should I do that?"

"You know was was being sarcastic when we planned that, right?"

"Wait what?"

"That wasn't a real plan!"

"Oh."

"Oh what?"

"I already started it."

"YOU DID WHAT NOW?"

"I started the plan."

"You are such an idiot."

"Well it's going alright now!"

"You idiot."

"No seriously! It's gonna turn out fine! I promise!"

"Pinkie promise?"

"Pinkie promise."

"Fine. Carry on with the plan."

"I will."

"You'd better."

"I love you, Artie."

"Love you to, Sea Bass."

"Bye."

"Bye."


End file.
